Twitch II

The last time I felt the twitch was not such a long time ago. At that time, the charming belle dame sans merci suggested I write something like the Lost One had written, with resonances of Poe and Lovecraft.

For the last few days, the twitch has grown. It has a life of its own now, all-consuming and hungry for gold medals. I can imagine it now. The 100 micrometre twitch. The 110 millimetre hurdles. The triple twitch. The short putt. It is still a small toe in our perceptions, but it thinks it is Gojira. It is a komodo dragon thinking it is draco splendens horribilis.

My twitch gathers strength to itself. Its neighbours look askance at it, worried that somehow the runt of the litter will inherit the kingdoms of the plain. The twitch smirks, knowing that the 'twitch' is merely a contraction, a contraction of 'toe' and 'witch'. It holds nude midnight rituals when I am not watching, baring the unbareable and laughing nastily beneath its veneer of foot spray.

And it has taken to blogging too. I was shocked to find this entry here. It thinks of this blog as its 'diary'. How terrifying! Don't the little things of this world have better things to do than commandeer blogs? I am tempted to think of it as a dictator in a single-party state, but that would probably legitimise it.

I have no choice. I must put up with it, even as it slowly drives me insane.